


The Unconscious Mind

by rosemilagros



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M, Non-Explicit, Psychoanalysis, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:19:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemilagros/pseuds/rosemilagros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam attempts to build a life in L.A. after his defeat in the 47th but finds himself only trying relive the one he had in Washington. Meanwhile, Toby preoccupies himself with a young college student that reminds him of Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There's a boy at the end of the bar that looks like Sam.

The resemblance is not flawless—his hair is an inch or two longer than Sam wore his and a shade darker; his jaw is not as square; his skin tone belongs to the son of a Boston socialite rather than a Los Angeles golden boy and he's younger than Sam was when they met—but when Toby first glimpses him, the similarities are enough to stop his heart. His eyes are just as blue, and his lips just as red, and he has that same sincere, naive look about him, the kind that even time can't diminish. The boy is unsettled and his gaze floats around the room like he doesn't know what he's doing there.

Toby wants to use drunkenness as an excuse to go ahead with it, but he isn't drunk. At this age it takes a lot to get him even a little numb and he doesn't have the time to work his way to intoxication or deal with its effects the following morning. What time he does have, apparently, is spent combing bars for anything fuckable.

He never goes through with it. He hardly ever approaches them. He picks one out from the crowd, spends twenty minutes examining them, certifying they don't have any political connections and don't know who he is, determining whether he has any chance in hell, and eventually thinking better of it and leaving.

He doesn't know if it's a coincidence or fate's own cruelty that this kid looks so much like Sam. In the past few months Toby has wasted entire afternoons thinking of him, unable to focus on anything else, and Sam's prominence in his thoughts grows only stronger. Imagining him in the next room eases the pressure in his head. He pictures him sitting at his desk or standing in the doorway, going ten times over something he wrote or troubling himself about a recent mishap, and Toby wonders if his imagination wouldn't be reality if things had gone differently. Thinking about it tightens his chest and leaves his stomach aching. He thinks about Sam during meetings, at his desk, in the shower, any moment he can spare. The more he tries to stop them, the more incessant the thoughts become.

His latest manner of self-torment has been to distract himself from important work with the elaborate and humiliating daydream of booking a flight to California. He imagines himself valiantly appearing on Sam's doorstep and sweeping him away to a pretentious L.A. restaurant he would hate but Sam would love, not for the glamor or the cloth napkins and the 30-dollar salads or the false sense of importance granted by those kinds of places, but for the gentle lighting and the floor-to-ceiling tropical fish tanks and the pleasant clinking of champagne glasses and diverse conversation playing around them. After dinner and maybe a show, they would park the car on a secluded part of the beach or get a room in the cheapest hotel they could find and fuck like they used to on the campaign trail, for nostalgia's sake, and because the modern poet in Sam's heart would appreciate that kind of blunt juxtaposition in one evening.

He knows the realization of this fantasy is beyond unlikely, but the true absurdity is that he allows these fantasies to continue, knowing full well they won't get him anywhere. In reality, he and Sam have only spoken once since the election, only to verify that he was turning down the President's job offer. In any of their conversations Toby didn't get the sense that Sam was finished with politics, but this is what he told everyone who asked about it, from Bonnie to Leo to even the President. He doesn't want to believe Sam would turn down a promotion as an effect of their drifting apart, but the idea has been weighing on him since the election. There was something personal about the way Sam looked at him that night in C.J.'s office, when he gave that starry-eyed speech laced with bullshit about conviction and giving-it-your-best-shot. He knew Sam had been angry at him for months, ever since he found out about Andy, and neither of them did anything about it. A screaming fight would have been better than the slow friction that went on between them.

Tonight he's the perfect combination of lustful, arrogant, and pissed off; Andy's out of town and he's been agonizing too much about her health and thinking too much about Sam. He's seriously considering making a pass at the kid. This place isn't the lobby bar at the Ritz-Carlton or anything like it and he isn't worried about the bartender with a Chinese calligraphy tattoo or the two pool-players in baseball caps recognizing the White House Communications Director as he picks up a young guy at a bar. Moreover, he doesn't know if he can get through one more day without some kind of relief.

The boy looks surprised when Toby sits down next to him. He has a Miller Lite in his hand and Toby orders him another one before introducing himself, grinning, being very unlike himself. He'd much rather proposition the boy upfront, but that's not the way these things are done. The boy smiles back and fumbles his words. His eyes do not meet Toby's for more than a second before darting away, but his voice is bright and he runs his tongue over his lip nervously and within a minute Toby is won over and can't wait to take him home.

They fuck at Toby's place. It's a miracle something so young and lovely would agree to come home with him, and he doesn't want to be suspicious but he is; he wonders what motivation this boy could possibly have for sleeping with him, how he could tolerate someone this old and unstylish whose charming performance tonight was so unbelievably transparent. The boy is diffident and somewhat reluctant from the time they embrace on the rainy sidewalk outside the bar, neon lights reflected in his eyes and on the wet road, to when they stand together in the warm living room, breath labored and humid with alcohol, kissing and pushing off each other's coats and letting them fall to the floor. It is when Toby smooths back his damp hair and kisses his neck that the boy is wholeheartedly seduced, and there is no more reluctance.

His skin is smooth and pale under his shirt and he looks thin against the mattress, laid flat with both hands pinned beside his head. Toby is annoyed when the boy stops him, a soft whining preceded by a moan; he's going to back out now, after all this, claim that he's nervous and overwhelmed and then ask for a ride home. But he only asks, very politely, about a condom. "I don't want to inconvenience you," he adds. "There's one in my coat pocket if you don't have any."

Toby looms over him, staring, hands still wrapped around his wrists and pushed into the pillows. He doesn't respond, or move, and he doesn't mean to unnerve the boy by doing this; he is still caught off guard by his likeness to Sam. Toby hadn't noticed it before but the polish of his voice and how he forms his words, with his teeth more than his tongue, the irregular upturns in his tone like a student driver unsure of his speed and the distinctive pattern in his sentences sounds too much like an impression of Sam. He hasn't quite got the diction right, but the eloquence is there, like Sam's, hiding beneath the surface.

"I'll grab one," he breathes, and strokes the boy's hair to tell him that he isn't annoyed or inconvenienced, and weeks later when he looks back on this night this will be the moment, he thinks, that he was captivated.

—

Geoff reminds him of Toby in the obvious ways. His beard, of course, which is thick and full but clipped closer to the face; his dark hair tinged brown instead of gray, how he imagines a young Toby's would be; his fashion sense not as inelegant but just as earth-toned. He's a few years younger and a few inches taller with more hair and less gut, like a daytime television version of Toby who smiles more often. Sam admits to himself, a week after their first kiss, their likeness may not be an accident. He isn't too ashamed to analyze his own psychology or admit that his interest in Geoff may stem from his similarity to Toby but he does, for Geoff's sake, feel guilty about it.

But, unlike Toby, Geoff could never become the center of his life. He has the potential to become a pillar in Sam's memoirs or a bright memory among these drab months in the corporate world, but Sam does not allow him to consume his heart like he allowed Toby. He is wise enough not to make any more irrational decisions on behalf of a man who doesn't love him. One might not be able to tell from the letters in his diary, but there are things other than Geoff in his life, important things, things that are significant enough to occupy his mind but not exciting enough to be the first thing he thinks about in the morning. Geoff is not the only good thing happening for him in Los Angeles and not the only thing keeping him here. He is not Sam's earliest and certainly not his only memory of Copeland, Stroud & Jones. He arrives sometime afterward, like a storm after the calm, when Sam is becoming comfortable again in his hometown with his cozy salary and his nice apartment. Geoff is not the first or even the second person to introduce himself after Sam is shown to his unexpectedly spacious office, almost as large as the one he was given in the White House.

One of the junior partners, Kathleen Ramsey, is the first friend he makes. Sam thinks at first that she is very much like C.J. He acknowledges that this impression may be the result of a tendency to spend his mental free time subconsciously selecting people to fill the roles in his life vacated by those he left behind in Washington, but he still thinks of her and describes her to Josh over the phone as very much like C.J. For reasons unspecified, everyone calls Ramsey solely by her last name and she insists, upon being introduced to him in her office, that Sam do the same.

It soon becomes evident that Ramsey is the comedienne of the workplace and despite the discouragement of favoritism between partners and associates, mutual affection quickly sprouts between them. Sam reveals to himself with guilt-ridden diction while discussing his co-workers in his diary, whose pages have rapidly filled since he returned to Los Angeles, that this is the basis of how she becomes the new C.J. He hates to make a confession like that, even to himself, hates to think that he is replacing his longstanding colleagues and friends with those that come closest to their looks and personalities and therefore diminishing not only the meaning of their relationship to him, but who they are as individuals. He thinks too often of those people, two-thousand miles away, working long hours with little sleep in the big white house on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Ramsey is older and married with two kids in college and one in high school and she does her job well. She can go from cold to hot as quickly as it takes her to walk from her office to the conference room. She aims her temper toward colleagues as motivation and influence and as strength toward adversaries, who occasionally happen to double as colleagues. Sam likes her—loves her perhaps, in an idolizing way—predominantly for the way she fills C.J.'s role better than anyone else fills theirs. Maternity drifts around her like perfume and she takes Sam under her wing, favors him, assigns him work coveted by associates that have worked here far longer than he has. She lets him sit in on meetings he has no business sitting in on and goes out of her way to spread his name around and introduce him to high-profile clients. It is favoritism in its rawest form, and Sam is bothered by it only when he thinks about it too much. The truth is, whether for his job performance or his dazzling smile, he thrives on being the favorite. Being given special privileges is only an added bonus. It is this line of thought, this consideration of favoritism and who gave the most of it to him in Washington, that makes Sam consider that Ramsey is also taking on what was once Toby's role.

He has less of a social life in L.A. Not that he had much of one before, but his loneliness is more noticeable now that he's able to leave the office before sundown. He sees his parents often: dinner with his mother and the less occasional and more awkward drink with dad. During home visits, it feels like his decades spent on the East Coast happened within the span of days and when September arrives he will be on a plane back to Princeton.

He even agrees to go with his mother to the dinner party of a good friend, a woman named Teresa that has been around since he was born and somewhere along the line gained the honorary title of Aunt. She greets him with two hands on his cheeks and an exclamation of how handsome he is and hugs him before seizing the casserole his mother made him carry and inviting them inside. Teresa's husband George is there, drinking beer and watching football on the couch with her brother Bernard, apparently not having moved in 10 years. They each greet Sam with a grunt and a nod and George extraneously mentions that he voted for Chuck Webb, at which Sam can only smile uncomfortably and leave the room. Bernard's wife Dawn is in the kitchen tending dinner and she greets him with his third cheek-kiss of the night. It seems like nothing has changed since he last saw any of them, however many Christmas parties ago.

Bernard and Dawn's daughter is there and since she is a senior at UCLA most of the dinner conversation involves harassing her about what she wants to do with her life, if she plans on staying in California post-graduation, and if she has any boyfriends. This, of course, does not stop Sam's mother from continually refocusing the conversation on her son, who she glorifies as having done God's work in Washington. They manage to reach dessert with Uncle George uttering only two profanities regarding the President.

They are finished with dinner and Sam is helping clear the table when someone knocks at the front door. He freezes when Aunt Teresa escorts her son Jason into the kitchen. Sam had nearly forgotten him, not really his cousin but sort of his cousin, two years his elder and his primary bad influence in high school. Also, coincidentally, the boy that took his virginity. It's been at least ten years since Sam last saw him.

Jason apologizes for being late and kisses the cheeks of his aunts and pats Sam's back when they hug. Their interaction for the rest of the party consists of small talk and catching each other's stares across the room and their mothers trying to reunite them because, "You boys used to be so close!" Later on they go out for drinks and fool around in the back of Jason's car like they did as teenagers.

On Monday morning, Ramsey points out that he looks well-rested.

Jason lives in Seattle and was only visiting for Easter, and they see each other twice more at Sam's apartment before he catches a flight back home. They part on good terms, but the afterglow of good sex fades quickly, and things are as they were. Sam focuses on work. His heart isn't broken or anything close to it, but it's difficult to return to a corporate and celibate life after those few days of being coddled and lusted after, and he is not left as purged of longing as he hoped. Each morning, reminiscence of D.C. and the warmth of Toby's sheets and pillows still clasp themselves to his mind.

Ramsey's 45th birthday party (one of several, Sam gathers) is held at a bar-and-grille thick with cigarette smoke and bad lighting. This must fall under the category of a work party because the only people in attendance he recognizes from the office: several associates and a few paralegals and assistants, as well as some of the partners Sam has never been introduced to. There is a ton of food and alcohol and the bar is, unfortunately, hosting a karaoke night in Ramsey's honor. Sam ends up in a round booth on the perimeter of the area the party has designated as their own, directly in front of the karaoke stage, underneath a banner that is someone's idea of clever: _Happy 60th B-day!_ There are coats and purses sitting around him in the booth and several empty bottles on the table and plates with only scraps left. Everyone is up and about, talking and singing and ordering another round of drinks.

Sam has been alone for a while, working on his second beer, when a man appears in front of him. He is mid-sip and surprised by the abrupt appearance, and when he releases the bottle a moment too early beer spills onto his chin and shirt.

The stranger stands with one hand in his pocket and the other holding some artisanal beer. His face is placid and unchanged by Sam's small blunder. "Hello."

He looks familiar, and Sam thinks he may be one of the partners, but he isn't certain. "Hi," he returns, trying not to look frightened or distressed as he grabs a napkin to wipe the beer off his face.

"You're Sam Seaborn?"

"Yes."

"Pleased to meet you." He extends his hand. "Geoff Copeland."

Sam shakes it but his movement slows as the name registers. "Mr. Copeland." He tries to sound casual but it doesn't come off well. "I thought you'd be a lot older."

Geoff Copeland's gaze falls to the table and he shuffles his feet in a way that Sam finds familiar. "Well, uh… you're probably thinking of my father," he smiles. "Or my grandfather. His name's the one on the sign."

Sam, not for the first time tonight, bites his tongue. He doesn't know why he considered it plausible that the Chair of the firm would be attending a bar-and-grille birthday party for an insignificant partner whom he likely never met and never would. Sam has lost track of his blunders now, but he's sure each one will come back to haunt him sometime later. "Oh," is all he can think to say. Geoff Copeland takes a seat on the other side of the booth. "You'd be Mr. Copeland, Jr., then?" he asks, thinking this would be funny.

"The third, actually. But you can call me Geoff," His words are deliberate, and it becomes apparent through his voice and the way he stares that he did not seek Sam out just to congratulate him on the new job and welcome him to the company, "if I can call you Sam."

Geoff is a hideous name, Sam thinks, but it suits him, and this is another way in which he and Toby are alike. It doesn't take long after that for Sam to find himself in a familiar relationship with a less familiar boss.

Things start off slow. Sam doesn't even think anything of it in the first days. He doesn't find Geoff Copeland outstandingly handsome but there is something captivating about his presence, about his voice and the way he carries himself; it's like Sam is tapped on the shoulder and told to look up any time he comes within a certain distance. They are alone together on the elevator one evening and Geoff begins an innocuous conversation that leads into Sam running his mouth about white-collar defense and the corporate investigations their own company is fighting on the wrong side of. It is several backbiting insinuations before it dwells upon Sam exactly who he is speaking to.

His voice quiets after citing a case in which they represented a Fortune 500 company that pampered executives while grossly underpaying low-level employees. He watches as the elevator counts down to the ground floor; the numbers seem to be moving slower than usual. "You should have stopped me before I implied that everyone who works here is a greedy, flesh-eating plutocrat," he says, but the tension is still enough to be cut with a knife.

"Probably," Geoff sighs, his voice strong and clear. "But you're not wrong about the flesh-eating part. Besides," Sam looks up at him, but his cell phone has started to ring and he is looking down at it in his hand. "I like hearing you talk."

Geoff answers his phone as the elevator comes to a stop and he and Sam part ways a few steps into the parking garage. He has only gone ten feet when Geoff calls his name and he turns to see him, chin raised lightheartedly, holding his briefcase at his side and his cell phone away from his face. "Lunch tomorrow?" he asks.

Sam hesitates, then nods, and watches as Geoff turns and disappears around a row of cars, his voice echoing off the cement walls. He thinks about him that night, in the dark of his bedroom, imagines what his thick hands would feel like around his wrists, in his hair, on his thighs.

—

Nathan is still in college, which Toby finds displeasing on the grounds that it feeds his guilt. He doesn't ask for the boy's exact age and by some miracle never finds out. Assigning a number to his youth would only reinforce the disgust Toby feels toward himself for lusting after someone so young. Still, he cannot think up an argument strong enough to stop him. He's self-aware. He knows it's perverted and twisted and above all he knows this isn't love. It's not like it was with Sam and he doubts it ever will be. Still, he can't stop himself.

The sex is great and vivacious and tyrannizes their first two weeks together. Nathan is submissive in all the good ways; he wants approval and surrenders himself to attain it, and when they're in bed together Toby has to routinely assure him that yes, he's doing just fine. This demand for approval and other needy behaviors are red flags for what one might call Daddy issues, but Toby does not pry into personal matters Nathan does not willingly share and avoids becoming emotionally intimate enough to divulge any inner thoughts of his own.

They are still seeing each other after a few dates and the sex is still amazing, but something about their relationship becomes all at once vapid and Toby disturbingly catches himself wanting more between them. After three consecutive nights at his place that involve nothing but sex, rushed breakfast, and paying Nathan's bus fare before hurrying to work, Toby admits that, if whatever it is they have is to continue, they both might have to try a bit harder.

Nathan lives in a cramped duplex with another student from his school and more in the apartment downstairs. The place is small, with a combined kitchen-living room and one bath. It's messy in the way that college apartments always are: a dusty television set and half-empty mugs of cold tea left on every table, carpets in desperate need of vacuuming and unwashed dishes in the sink. Nathan's room is messier than the rest of the apartment, his laundry strewn across the floor, trash can overflowing, psychology journals and papers and textbooks on everything from Freud and Jung to Pavlov and Maslow, neuroanatomy, pharmacology, covering his desk and nightstand and the side of his mattress he doesn't sleep on. Toby tries not to be critical when he visits and he manages to be very good at keeping his mouth shut, but inevitably ends up washing the dishes while Nathan sleeps in. Only by accident has he encountered the other roommate, a girl who dresses to kill and whose hair color seems to change each time they meet.

The first time she catches him in the apartment is on a quiet Sunday morning after an equally quiet night with Nathan, while Toby is making what he can out of the limited breakfast supplies in the kitchen. Halfway in the front door, she stands there holding a paper grocery bag against her waist, one hand motionless on the outer handle, staring at him across the living room. "Are you Nathan's...?"

"Yes," he says prematurely.

"...father?"

"Yes," he says again, without thinking, then corrects, "No, I'm not his... no. I'm just a friend. I'm visiting." In his effort to explain himself he almost mentions that he stayed the night.

His age makes her suspicious, he can tell, but thereafter she does not question or even acknowledge him and days later Nathan says he was never even aware they'd ran into each other.

At first, Toby is worried that she knows who he is. He reads her as the type to sell a scandal to anyone for the right price. It's not as if the physicality of he and Nathan's relationship is shrouded in mystification and it certainly doesn't take her very long to sort out what's going on between them. However, once she has that figured out, all of her curiosity seems to disappear. She ignores Toby when they run into each other on the front steps or in the doorway and exchange looks, usually when one of them is coming or going, as if to silently voice her disapproval.

He and Nathan are having lunch one Tuesday at a small diner near his apartment that serves breakfast all day. It's become their custom to take the furthest available seat from the door when they go out together, and Toby gives Nathan a look when he asks if they can take the booth by the window. His is not an extremely recognizable face outside of political circles and it is rare for him to be recognized on the street or anywhere else, even in Washington; but he takes no chances when it comes to this. The ramifications would be drastic enough if he was caught sleeping with another man, and worse yet a college student, but the combination of these factors puts a target on his back the size of Texas and makes him a liability to the President. He won't allow himself to be caught.

Toby glances over the top of his newspaper every time the bell on the door rings and someone enters the diner. He spends a good minute studying each one to determine that he does not recognize them in the slightest, evaluates whether or not they pose a threat, and returns to reading when he can find none. Nathan sits across from him, halfway through a pancake the size of his plate that both of them know he won't be able to finish.

Their time together is always quiet. Nathan isn't much of a conversationalist, which sets him apart from every lover Toby has had in the past decade and a half, especially Sam, but when he gets started on a topic of particular interest to him he is just as talkative as Sam ever was. This more than makes up for any disparities in the mental tally Toby keeps of their similarities and differences.

Nathan's taciturnity is remarkably enjoyable when they are alone together. Toby appreciates the silent communication between them, the way Nathan responds only physically when they kiss, subsiding into Toby's embrace to tell him yes, curving against his hands to tell him where he wants to be touched. This deprives Toby only of the pleasure of having someone to shush and domineer, the way he liked to with Sam when his moans became too loud or incessant. Only in their absence does he realize that he enjoyed those noises more than he would have allowed himself to believe.

"Stop that," Nathan says after Toby once again flicks down the corner of his newspaper to look at the door. He pours more syrup onto his plate, leaving it in a pool on the side and soaking each bite of pancake individually. "You're being paranoid."

Toby straightens the paper upright, shielding his view of Nathan and Nathan's view of him. "Is that a diagnosis?"

He responds by blowing air through his nose and shaking his head in amused disbelief, but Toby senses his amusement is shallow and beneath the surface something about their public discretion bothers him. It occurs to him fifteen minutes later, when Nathan is in the bathroom and he's waiting for the waitress to return with his change, it is possibly because his guardedness is being misconstrued as shame. Outside of the bedroom Toby's passion for Nathan is inexistent but he still cares for him in an undefined way. He wishes he didn't but he does and he has trouble accepting that; he cannot bring himself to disregard Nathan's feelings totally.

It's well into spring now and the weather has been clear and warm for weeks. Today the sky is a garish, cloudless blue and the humidity is brutal. There's a refreshing breeze as they stroll the sidewalk at an appropriate distance, but the car is boiling with stagnant heat and Toby rolls down the windows before he even gets in. He keeps his jacket off and sunglasses on, namely to shield him from the sun flashing off the other cars. The fact that they obscure his face is also a calculated benefit.

They both stay quiet while they drive, as they always do, but Toby clears his throat as they reach a red light. He focuses on the license plate of the sedan in front of them. "Do you get upset when I keep an eye out in public?"

Nathan turns his head. "No," he says, but Toby isn't convinced.

He studies him briefly before looking back to the road. "You know I'm only being careful."

"Your job, I know."

The red light turns green and they move forward. Nathan turns away. Toby tries to keep an impersonal tone, like he just wants to clear things up and isn't concerned with either of their feelings, but the impartiality is ruined when he lays his hand on top of Nathan's. "I don't want you to think I'm embarrassed by you."

"I understand, Toby," he says, and squeezes his hand. It's strange to hear his name said like this. "The last thing I want is a blurry photo of us making out on the front page of The Post."

For the first time, Toby has the impulse to kiss Nathan for something other than his resemblance to Sam. He holds back. They kiss fleetingly before he drops Nathan off four blocks from campus.

Toby has yet to disclose his exact title or the seniority of his position, but he informed Nathan early on about his employment at the White House. By now the boy has probably worked out the finer points on his own if he hasn't already entered Toby's name into any given search engine. He doesn't have to be told how important foresight and precaution are in their relationship. For a while, at the beginning, Toby was afraid he would sell him out to some reporter, or several, and for a while that motivated him to keep Nathan happy. Now, if he was anyone but himself, he would hardly believe he was so cynical.

He doesn't see Nathan that night and they don't talk over the phone—an occurrence that is becoming more common as their relationship moves beyond its initial stage of euphoria and into a relaxed, compatible bliss. Nathan has classes Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, granting Toby two nights a week in which he doesn't have to worry about canceling their plans as he is often forced to. Dividing his time between his lover, the woman carrying his unborn children, and his servitude to the Executive Branch of the United States Government is not an undertaking that Toby might call effortless, but neither is it overwhelming. He does not feel any more burdened than usual. His responsibilities to the President are his priority, they always have been, and his job performance does not suffer aside from an insignificant slackening in his schedule, the likes of which comes complimentary to any senior position in the White House. The fraction of business hours he loses to his personal life are compensated by later nights at the office and pushing more work than is fair onto his new deputy. Andy is easy to satisfy with a visit and a nice dinner every so often, and their appointments with the obstetrician are always kept. Nathan consumes a good bit of his time, but Toby's senselessness in this matter does not come close enough to irresponsibility to compel him to sacrifice more important parts of his schedule to a cheap love affair.

That same night he and C.J. are sharing Chinese takeout in the dim light of his office, a welcome distraction from actual work. They face the television while they eat, Toby at his desk and C.J. on the couch, its volume lowered since neither of them really wants to hear what's being said. It's only the local news, nothing important, and they stare aimlessly at the anchorwoman in order to avoiding staring at each other or discussing, God forbid, work-related matters.

"Who'd you have lunch with?" C.J. asks in between bites of chicken, after she's gotten enough food in her stomach that she can go a few seconds without scarfing down more.

Toby slows his chewing before he replies, twisting his chopsticks into the lo mein and avoiding eye contact. "What?"

"I came to your office earlier and Ginger said you were out to lunch. Did you meet with that guy?"

He stalls with more chewing. "What guy?"

"The one with the funny name. Wilbur something?"

Toby relaxes. "Oh, Walter Waters. No."

"Then who'd you meet with?"

He takes another bite of lo mein and realizes it would've been easier to lie. C.J. has no professional business with Will Waters; she just likes his name and having an excuse to say it. He can't think of another lie he'll be able to get away with.

"Toby?" C.J. asks. She wasn't all that curious at the onset of their conversation, but her interest is piqued by Toby's reluctance to share his mysterious lunch mate's identity. She isn't at all concerned about coming off as meddlesome.

"No one," he answers, glancing at her. It is a rushed answer and a bad one at that; he does not share C.J.'s aptitude for clever feedback under pressure.

She uncrosses her ankles and lets them down from where they rest on the coffee table. "Toby," she says leisurely, leaning forward with the box of take-out still in her hand. He looks up at her. "Who did you have lunch with?"

"Nobody," he repeats, slumping in his chair and trying to pay attention to the television.

A smile pulls at the edge of her mouth. "Did you have a date?" she asks.

Silence would be incriminating. "No, I did not have a date." Toby is not a skilled liar, especially when put on the spot like this, but he is not incapable of deceiving others. He excels at keeping his mouth shut and maintaining a straight face, but actively inventing untruths is something he never practiced.

"Was it Andy?" C.J. asks.

He is tempted to say yes, but this lie would imaginably lead to a hundred more, and involving Andy would make it too easy for C.J. to find out he had misled her. "No."

"Tabitha Fortis? You haven't seen her for a while."

"Yes, I had lunch with Tabitha Fortis."

"Did you?"

He gives her an irritated stare and doesn't answer.

"Who was it, then?" she pauses, and when he still doesn't answer, her lips part into an enthused smile. "Oh my God. You're seeing somebody, aren't you?"

He leans forward and places the takeout box on his desk. "I have an ex-wife pregnant with twins, a deputy who still gets lost on his way to the bathroom, and I'm also a little busy working for the President of the United States. Do I seem like someone who has time right now, for a girlfriend?"

He meant for this to be humorous, but C.J.'s smile mellows and her eyes lower to the floor. "I just thought, with Sam staying in L.A.…"

There's a light tap at the half-open door and they both look up at Josh. He glances briefly at Toby before looking to C.J., his face sullen with either worry or fatigue. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asks.

She nods, "Yeah, sure," and Josh runs a hand through his hair as he turns away. She stands and points a finger at Toby. "Mark my words," she says. "If you're seeing someone, I'm going to find out who they are whether you want me to or not."

He watches as she follows Josh out of the bullpen, and the heaviness in his chest tells him she isn't kidding.


	2. Chapter 2

It feels very much like a high school crush; dumb and shallow, the kind that does a good job of distracting him when he should be focused on more important matters. He wishes he can say this is the first time he's ever felt like this, but that isn't anywhere close to the truth. It hasn't even been 6 months; but that doesn't make the butterflies in his stomach any less irritating.

He sees Geoff almost every day at work, either by his intention or his, and only occasionally by coincidence. Often Sam finds himself going up to Geoff's floor when he has no good reason to and just as often he sees Geoff come downstairs to visit with Ramsey about some insignificant thing that could just as easily wait until their next meeting. He finds a way to quickly catch Sam's attention and shoot him a smile each time he conveniently passes by his office (which, granted, is just across from Ramsey's), or more rarely, he blatantly steps in and says hello.

Sam isn't sure yet how to label their relationship: attraction, romance, God help him, _dating_. They've gone to lunch a few times and they shamelessly flirt in and outside of work, but neither of them has made a move beyond that. Geoff is incurably charming and even when it becomes clear to both of them that Sam is in the palm of his hand Geoff continues to banter with him, to pull him even in further in, to rope him into coming out to dinner. It's a nice change for Sam to be the one pursued instead of in pursuit. He doesn't have to spend day and night dissecting his words and actions, trying to find some deeper meaning in them, not knowing whether all of this is in his head.

They've been on several lunch dates now, all wonderful, hazy with flirtation and full of moments that make Sam smile and blush when he replays them in his mind. The way that he remembers their first date—lunch at a cheap deli just a block from the office building—it might as well have been dinner at a fine restaurant on a Saturday night, with candlelight and roses.

He smiles too much out of nervousness that day, and laughs at Geoff's humor too loudly for the same reason, but the mood is relaxing and it doesn't take much effort for Sam to talk about himself. The words come off his tongue like there is someone else controlling it, telling him just what to say. The conversation flows, and Geoff touches his hand at the right instant, accidentally rubs his foot against Sam's.

"Why did you leave the White House?" he asks, almost like he is taunting him, like he knows the real reason and wants to pry it out of him.

Sam doesn't meet his eyes, swirls around his coffee in its styrofoam cup. "Well, I don't know if you heard, but there was this race for a thing called the House of Representatives…"

"Yeah, but they offered you a job, didn't they? I mean there was that guy they got as the new… whatever your title was, but they offered you another job."

Sam bites his lip. "On the White House Counsel, yeah."

"So you didn't want to go back?"

He wanted to get out of politics. That's the reason he gives. It is weak, and Geoff sees right through it, but he doesn't pressure Sam and makes a joke about it instead. He used the same excuse on the phone with Leo when he called to offer him the position, and Josh when he called subsequently, but the words sounded much more convincing then. Now he can't bring himself to lie with resolution, not in front of Geoff, and he doesn't know why. It may have something to do with the fact that the truth wouldn't horrify him. Still, he can't tell Geoff; not yet. He wouldn't think less of Sam for it, not at all, but it isn't Sam's story alone. To lay it bare to anyone else would be a violation of everything they shared. No matter how much he's wanted to hurt Toby now and in the past, he can't betray him. The story belongs to the both of them.

He and Geoff have fun together. It is the first open relationship Sam has ever had with a man. They go out together, they kiss in public, they don't have to hide anything. It feels like a romance film the way it happens, the candlelight dinners at expensive restaurants that Geoff can afford, the kind Toby would never think to take him to. It's the side of the L.A. lifestyle Sam never experienced as a kid.

They sleep together after their first date, excluding all of the lunches together, which is the fastest someone has ever gotten Sam into bed. For the rest of the weekend he is afraid that Geoff won't call him, some odd paranoia, but they see each other at work the following Monday and Geoff is more in love with him than before, kissing him in the lobby despite their rule about PDA at work, and slipping a hand around his waist in the elevator.

"He is," Sam writes to his diary, "everything I wish Toby could have been." He regrets the sentence and scratches it out, but that isn't enough, so he searches in a box he hasn't gotten around to unpacking yet for white-out, and blots the words out from the page.

He can't tell his parents about Geoff, because they don't know. He lets on to his mother that he is seeing someone and she presses him to tell all about the lucky girl. He says it's nothing serious and there is an inkling of understanding in her voice, a mother's perception, and he drops the subject before he can give himself away. She suspects, everyone suspects, they've always suspected. They all breathed a sigh of a relief when he and Lisa announced their engagement, were glad to think they had the wrong idea about it, and it somehow turned into a joke until they broke up.

He doesn't see his parents that often any more. He claims that work is picking up and he just doesn't have the time; his father doesn't mind, but his mother gets into the habit of dragging out their conversations like she is letting go of her son all over again, and she makes him promise to visit every other week for dinner.

Business runs smoothly, more smoothly than he remembers anything going at Gage Whitney, and his work is challenging but not complicated like it was in Washington. It isn't difficult to balance the different areas of his life and more often he finds these separate forces operating together rather than against, like a series of gears.

They try to prevent rumors from spreading around the office but they don't really try, and Sam notices after a time that his coworkers are treating him differently, giving him snide looks in the halls and on the elevator or flat out avoiding him. Ramsey finds out surprisingly late. She is usually alert to these sorts of things, but her mind has been overrun by a civil case for one of their largest clients and she doesn't have time for something so unimportant.

She has been asked to lead the case, which should have been sewn up as quickly as it was opened. A driver for a limousine service prominent in Hollywood was convicted of manslaughter while off-duty, but the family of the victim wants restitution from the limousine service. They advised the company to settle but they refused and the case went quickly to court. There was nothing appealing about the case to the press until an A-list celebrity made a comment that he knew the driver personally and that his conviction was unjustified, and now Ramsey is getting heat from higher up to make this go well.

She's been on edge about the entire ordeal since it began, snapping at paralegals and drinking an unhealthy amount of coffee, popping pills while everyone pretends not to see. Typically Sam would be right by her side for this but he keeps his distance, venturing into her office only when necessary and going out of his way to avoid the conference room she has made her base of operations. His illusion of her as a role model is destroyed. When he first arrived she seemed so strong, a force of pure justice cutting through all the bureaucracy, determined to do all she could for the sake of righteousness in this den of snakes.

Sam is sitting in his office with another attorney one afternoon when Ramsey has just gotten out of a meeting with their client. They two of them watch her through the open door, on the other side of the cubicles, as she lets into a young intern. Sam's guest scoffs. "That's nothing. You should've seen her during the Warners infringement suit."

Geoff says something similar about Ramsey's behavior around the same time. Sam asks him about it one night at his place, while they are making dinner together—a stage of intimacy which they reach swiftly. Cooking together was something he and Toby never did, not that they had the time back then, and Sam is glad to have someone who not only does these things with him but genuinely enjoys them.

They talk while they cook, and Geoff stands peeling apples into the sink and handing them off to Sam while he listens to his grievances. "I knew she was impatient, but I figured that was just her way of getting things done. When I met her I thought… this place mustn't be so bad if they hire people like that to take care of things," he says. "She seemed dauntless."

"She's a busy woman." He knows Geoff doesn't like to gossip about co-workers; he feels it's in bad taste considering his family ties with the company, but he listens willingly to Sam's complaints about work. "She gets stressed whenever a big case like this rolls around. She'll be back to herself once it's over."

"And in the meantime we'll have to endure her wrath?"

"Or just stay out of the way."

Sam sighs and takes another apple as it's handed to him.

"What's wrong?" Geoff asks in a caring tone that Sam isn't used to.

Sam has never kept things bottled up. That was always Toby's method; if he opened up about anything, it was because Sam pried it out of him. Now that he is on the other side of the dynamic he sees the benefit of keeping his thoughts to himself. He understands the sentiment from Geoff's perspective and Sam knows from experience that repression is only a short-term solution.

"I'm just wondering if I made the right decision," he says, and after an instant of hesitation he continues on another apple. Movement keeps things simple, keeps him from saying something he wouldn't want Geoff to hear, or giving it all away with one look.

"About staying in California?"

"About not taking the job."

Geoff looks like he's about to say something, but his lips close and he stays silent. He turns his back to the counter, his shoulder abutting Sam's. Sam suspects that early on he gave himself away by the emotion in his voice while discussing the White House. Geoff knows this story has more to it, that his leaving Washington was not purely a business decision. "Is there something that sparked this? Besides Ramsey's surliness."

Sam knows for certain that Ramsey's temperament sparked this train of thought, but calling her out for it was unnecessary, especially when her behavior is not all that's making him doubt himself. He shakes his head. "Everyone in that building is either miserable, evil, or insane. And since none of those traits apply to me yet, I suspect they will soon, with or without my own intention." Sam tells himself it was childish to turn down the position on the White House Counsel because of Toby, just to have a chance at wounding him, but he also questions if the decision wasn't a sensible one. Being together caused damage to both their lives and it would have been asinine to drive back into that situation on blind desire. Still, he doubted himself.

The conversation fades there and Sam hardly thinks of it for the rest of the night; not until Geoff brings it up when they are lying in bed. Sam has just begun to drift off, but Geoff's fingers on his bare arm bring him fully awake. Geoff is turned toward him, away from the light of the window, and shadow hides his face.

"Sam, honey?" he asks gently, unsure if he's asleep.

"Yes?"

"Do you really have qualms about not moving back to Washington?"

He wonders if Geoff has been worrying about this since their conversation in the kitchen. He was quiet during dinner, and he seemed distant even while Sam was on top of him. There is an intensity in his voice like he is trying to mask something behind it; fear, perhaps, of the odds that Sam will get on a plane the next morning without leaving so much as a note.

"A little," Sam says, and moves closer. "It's just my anxiety talking. Don't worry," He slides an arm under the pillow, comforted by the coolness of untouched sheets. "I don't think I could ever bring myself to go back there."

Geoff sighs. "When are you going to quit that?"

"Quit what?"

 "Acting like you had a falling out with Bartlet." Sam stops and considers how to respond, but his reluctance sparks Geoff's interest. "Oh my God, you didn't have a falling out with Bartlet, did you?"

Sam smiles. "No. The President and I departed on perfectly amicable terms."

"Did something else happen?" Geoff's hand is on his arm again, rubbing the side of his thumb over Sam's skin.

 "I'll tell you about it later," he says, and turns his head into Geoff's chest so he won't have to look at him anymore.

"All right." Geoff kisses his forehead, slides an arm under his body and pulls him closer. Sam's nose presses into his shirt and he closes his eyes. It's a humid night and only after a moment their shared body heat becomes uncomfortable, but Sam doesn't want to let him go. He remembers sharing nights like these with Toby in the shivering cold of east coast winters, when they would huddle against each other for warmth, and how he promised himself he would never let go, not that night, or any night thereafter.

He and Geoff drive to work separately as part of the effort to keep their relationship low-profile. Despite their affair no longer being much of a secret, it is technically still a secret, and they make an agreement not to be so straightforward about it. Sam fought against it, for fear of their arrangement becoming too much like his last, but he could not deny the excellent arguments that Geoff made. Claims of conflict of interest could arise at work, the probability of his father and grandfather finding out would become a very serious likelihood, and Geoff's influence in the corporate world as well as his family's would be demolished. For now the rumors are confined to those that work closest to them and they agree to have it stay that way.

Ramsey's irritability only worsens throughout the following week. Sam wants to say something to her, to suggest that she get some rest or go lie down or use up some vacation days, but he is, candidly, too afraid. He takes Geoff's advice and stays out of her way as best he can but that doesn't do him much good. Until now Sam managed to be no more than a bystander to her fits of rage, but when her temper flares there is nothing stopping her from chewing out anyone in close proximity.

The worst comes on a Friday afternoon, when everyone in the office is eager to get home, and they sit in a casual meeting with several of the associates. He sits at Ramsey's right, as he always does, but she is up from her seat and pacing around, jittery from the caffeine shots and two cups of coffee she had after lunch. No one is saying much because they're afraid of setting her off, but their silence is agitating her as well.

Ramsey threatens that if she loses this case, her last action before being fired will be to fire everyone at the table. Her verbal abuse has them all just as exhausted and irritated as she is and soon Ramsey isn't the only source of tension in the room. Most of them are already too blistered by the worst of her aggression to care what happens next and the brasher among them no longer fear her enough to hold back tempers of their own.

The first to make a gibe is an associate on the other side of table from Sam. "Just unbutton your blouse when Copeland calls you in," he says. "He'll forget the reason he wanted to fire you in the first place."

The table holds its breath. Ramsey's reaction is unlike what they anticipated. Her voice calms and she cracks a smirk. "If I wanted tips on how to suck up to the boss I'd just ask Seaborn."

The boss they were talking about was the second Geoffrey Copeland, his Geoff's father, but everyone understands what Ramsey meant. The room becomes uncomfortably quiet and Sam turns his face downward to hide its burning. Ramsey does not show any regret for the comment and after reading everyone's cold faces she goes right back into complaining about the case.

After the meeting Sam retreats into his office and shuts his eyes tight, thrusts his palms into the sockets until he sees starbursts and patterns of color. He's angry at Ramsey for humiliating him, for not apologizing, and at himself for thinking he could get away with a successful relationship free of secrecy or ridicule from his colleagues, and he's angry at Geoff for leading him to believe it.

It isn't much longer until the end of the business day, and Sam manages to hide in his office until everyone else is gone. Geoff has a meeting tonight and another early in the morning, so he knows he will be spending the rest of the night alone. He calls Josh before he leaves.

Donna picks up, answering a cordial but melodically routine "Josh Lyman's office." Hearing a familiar voice soothes him. For an instant it is like returning to the White House, where he was equally unsure about what the hell he was doing, but where he was comfortable being unsure, and he knew that everyone else was almost as clueless as he was.

"Hey, Donna," he says after a delay, and he hears her voice shift from equanimous secretary to delighted friend.

"Sam!" she says, and they move on to the things you're supposed to say when you talk to a friend you haven't talked to in a while, asking how things are and how's work and did you get that apartment you liked by the shore or did you find one closer to the office, and answering truthfully but not mentioning that you've been moved into it for two months now. Sam is becoming painfully aware of how their words grow more forced each time they speak, and how their phone calls are growing more infrequent, and this is not what either of them wants but this is how it happens.

He is trying to move away from Washington emotionally. The firm has helped, and so has Geoff, and the cafe down the street from his apartment that he has come to adore. It isn't to say that he's using Geoff, or that he's any kind of replacement, because he isn't. On their better days Sam even thinks he could say he loves him, but there is always something to stop him; something about their relationship and his life here in general feels like a summer romance, like it isn't really happening, like Sam is only visiting on a business trip. Los Angeles has always been his hometown but it will take a while to once more become his home, the place that he thinks of as the default, the center of the world from which everything else extends. He still thinks in Washington time, still assumes he can go jogging in long sleeves, still raises his eyebrows at the price of coffee.

The conversation lulls, both their smiles fade, and the realization that miles damage friendships resurfaces. "Is he available?" Sam asks.

Donna reverts to her secretary voice. "Not officially, but he's been going nonstop since lunch and he could use a break. I'll put you through."

Josh's voice is tired and down-put. He brightens when he hears Sam saying his name at the other end, not as much as Donna did, but enough that the shadow of a smile can be heard behind his words. "Hey, buddy! How are you? How's the job?"

Sam plays with a pen on his desk, turning it over repetitively in his hand. "Good. Well, work's, um..."

"Brutal?"

He smiles. "A little."

"Well, I bet the six figures don't hurt."

"No, not exactly," he admits. "It's astonishing what attorneys will pay you to sell your soul."

"Or just your morals."

They both chuckle but their smiles fade and things begin to feel like they did with Donna: quiet and awkward, with an added awareness of the rift that is inevitably opening between them. He and Josh have gone longer than this without talking or seeing one another, but their physical distance has never been this great. Sam doesn't know why two-thousand miles is any different from fifty when they aren't seeing each other either way.

It was different back then too, when he was in New York. He feels so much older now, as if he has gone over the peak of his life, and from now on he can only hope for comfort and stability, rather than moving forward. Josh is his tether to Washington, one of the reasons he still feels connected to the city, as if his unwillingness to let go of Josh completely also prevents him from untying his mind from the idea that he still belongs there.

"So, uh... how's everything?" Sam asks.

"Good. Well, y'know, what qualifies as good around here." There is a second or two of silence and Josh clears his throat. "I would talk about it but it's not really..."

Sam shakes his head. "No, yeah, I understand." For a moment their memories lapsed and it slipped from their minds that he is no longer part of the closed circle. He pictures Josh at his cluttered desk, three hours further into the night than he, looming over classified documents that are much more important than this phone call. "Oh, how's Amy by the way? Giving you as much trouble as you anticipated?"

"Well, she's not making it any easier to disagree with the First Lady, I'll tell you that."

Sam tries not to let the rest between his responses draw out too long, adding to the uncoordination of their exchange. He pinches the bridge of his nose but doesn't let his voice reflect the pressure he's feeling. "How's C.J. and Leo and everyone?"

"Good," Josh answers quickly. "C.J.'s good. And Leo's... y'know, he's Leo."

He can't think of another thing to say without bringing up Toby's name, which is the primary thing he is trying to avoid. Josh can sense this, too. He has always had some perception of what went on between them, more so than anyone else did, but much like he did decades ago when he discovered Sam's preference for men, he shuffled around the subject and evaded its confirmation.

"Your friend Will Bailey's getting on pretty well," he says, but from his tone Sam doesn't really believe it.

"Is he? That's great. I talked to him a few weeks ago but he didn't say much. He did fantastic on the inauguration speech."

"Yeah, everybody seemed to think so. I think even Toby's beginning to grudgingly tolerate him."

Sam halted at the mention of Toby's name, and let out an awkward, mechanical laugh. "He'll come around to him eventually, I'm sure." He bit his lip and tried to stop himself from saying anything else, but this only caused the tone of his voice to become even more robotic. "Hey, how's Andy?"

"Oh. She's great, yeah. Twins are due next month."

These have been some of the things on his mind in the past months, and the questions pour out of him. "Boys or girls?"

"One of each," Josh answers. "Haven't you... you haven't talked to Toby at all?"

Sam leans forward with an arm flattened across his desk. "No, I, uh... I just thought he'd been busy with Will and, uh, the babies and everything."

"All right," Josh says, pleasantly, but like he doesn't believe a word Sam is saying. "I'll tell him you said hi."

"No," he says, a little too quickly. "I can call him. I don't want him to think... I'm avoiding him. Or something."

It's clear that Josh knows him too well to be misled, but neither does he want to question Sam about a matter he'd rather have no knowledge of. "OK," he says after lingering in uncertainty. "I'll just tell C.J. then."

Sam nods, though he doesn't know why, and the strain that has been prevalent in their conversation reaches its peak.

"So, uh, was there a reason you called?"

Josh doesn't say it to be rude, and it is an innocuous question, and Sam understands that the Deputy Chief of Staff has a lot of work to do and if their roles were reversed he would not want to stay on the phone any longer than necessary, but this question is a marker for the death of a long distance relationship of any nature, implying that there had to be a specific reason for Sam to call, otherwise why would he? They end not on pleasant goodbyes, but on an unpromising talk-to-you-later and a vague good-luck that Sam wonders why he said after hanging up.

He regrets that he called in the first place and regrets even more that he asked about Toby, because for the rest of the night and while he's driving home in a light rain, listening to the steady beat of windshield wipers, white and ruby lights smeared across the wet black road, anger and jealousy swell in his heart and make his fists tighten around the leather steering wheel. The more he tries to get it out of his head the more it eats at him; the memories grind his teeth and his heart aches with the nostalgia of hearing Josh's voice over the phone, flat with exhaustion, and it's enough to tear him apart. He misses the White House. He misses his office and the communications bullpen and Bonnie and Ginger and the warmth of the Roosevelt Room, the contrasting rigidity of the Oval Office, and feeling his footsteps transition from carpet to marble floors and back again as he made his way across the West Wing. He misses C.J. and hearing her unflustered voice over the television set, the way she pets the corners of papers while she flips through them, how soft jewelry looks laying on her collarbone. He misses Josh's wrinkled blue shirts and the way he rubs his eyes with his entire hand, the clutter of his office, his ill-timed humor. He misses the President and the way he and Leo can communicate with eyes alone and the pride he felt standing in the same room as him, the feeling that he mattered, that he was part of something larger than himself. He misses laying on the couch in Toby's office, rolling up his sleeves at 5 o'clock when every other white collar worker in America was heading home, the incredulous glares he got from Bonnie when he said he wouldn't need her for the rest of the night. Above all he misses Toby.

It's a longing beyond nostalgia, beyond pain. He misses the months they were happy together, actually happy, when seeing each other was the best part of their day. He must move on from the memory, onto happiness that has a chance to endure. He finds comfort in Geoff's wide shoulders and the graze of his beard and his voice that sounds like Toby's when Sam wants it to, the cigars he buys as presents so he can smell them on him, can taste the tobacco on his mouth and pretend he is there again, two years younger, doing things that matter and being sidetracked by a romance that doesn't. In the dark, when neither of them speak, there really is no difference.

~

Things slip through his fingers with gaining speed. C.J.'s badgering about his social life is more irritating and worrisome than he assumed it would be, and the more he denies being involved with anyone the stronger she pushes. The likelihood that she will uncover anything is doubtful but the possibility of it still unsettles him. She teases him about it so openly that even Josh and perhaps Leo and some other staff have picked up on what's happening. Fortunately, none of them are as fascinated by his social engagements as C.J. seems to be, and whenever she raises her inquiries within their earshot, they've come to disregard it and treat the topic like an inside joke they will never be able to interpret.

A week of this back-and-forth passes and C.J. relents, preoccupied by a reporter new to the press room who has crossed the line several times already, and Toby relaxes for now. Regardless of C.J.'s repose on uncovering his current fling, as well as the unfeasibility of her actually discovering any evidence of it, Toby decides to be more cautious about public appearances with the boy.

He contemplates telling Nathan about what's happened and warning him that they might have to take a break for a while, until things cool down. A week or two without having to worry about him would give Toby time to focus on Andy, two months away from her due date, and still unwilling to let him put a ring on her finger. The two of them have been so separate in his mind until now, the wife and the lover, and considering them now in the same thought is unnerving. He has been on the verge of this feeling for weeks, perhaps since beginning his relationship with Nathan, but he has never allowed himself to go any deeper into the guilt.

He can feel himself behaving differently around Nathan, thinking little of him, willing to sacrifice this innocent kid's happiness so that his relationship with Andrea will be saved. He is doing damage control for his own sake, making sure that the mess he made won't have any lasting changes. This is just the thing he needs to give Andy a better reason not to marry him, not to trust him ever again.

Their association was never meant to be long-term. He was only looking for a quick fix that night in the bar, but as far as he goes to eschew sentiment he has never been good at one-night stands. He hasn't thought about where they're going or when it will end; he only knows that he can't let go of Nathan, not yet.

One thing is certain: they won't be able to see each other after the twins arrive. They have two months. They still have time.

Toby takes this as an opportunity to carefully begin untangling his web, thread by thread, like a needleworker manipulating fragile silk. He'll let him go delicately, and slowly. C.J. is not a threat to him, especially not now, but it would better serve his purposes if she was; so when he tells him, he makes her interest in his personal life perilous. It is an excuse to begin cutting their ties, a few at a time, so Nathan won't feel a thing when Toby snips the last of them.

He invites him over for wine and shows him photos and keepsakes from the first campaign, things to distract him from any irregular vibrations Toby may be giving off in his uneasiness about the situation. Nathan is fascinated by one particular photo album, an enormous scrapbook gifted to him after the first election, composed mainly of candids from the campaign trail. He sits on the floor with his legs stretched under the coffee table, examining each page, and Toby sits on the couch above him with a glass of wine, browsing through older photos, several from his marriage and some much earlier: his high school graduation, a family portrait just after David was born.

Nathan periodically holds up the photo album and asks who everyone is in a particular photo, and Toby tells him all their names as best he can remember, but he soon discovers he has forgotten most of the people that worked with them on the campaign. He wonders idly if this is just an ordinary fade of memories or if he never put much effort into learning their names in the first place. Nathan is engrossed in the scrapbook, fascinated by it, like it's a political artifact, and Toby watches for half a minute as he stares at a photo of the President and Sam sitting around a coffee table in their jeans and university sweatshirts, going over some transcript several days before the primary, both with glasses on and drained faces. "That's the other speechwriter, isn't it?" Nathan asks, tapping a finger over Sam.

Toby pretends to glance at him for the first time. "Yeah."

Nathan pulls the photo album closer. "He's gorgeous."

"Yeah," Toby replies without hesitancy.

Nathan turns his head to look at him, and one side of his mouth pulls into a smirk. "What?"

He takes a sip of wine and pays attention to the stack of assorted photos in his hand. There is one of him and C.J. before she left for California. "You would've gotten along with him," he says, trying to change the subject.

Nathan returns his attention to the campaign photo album, turning over its wide plastic pages. "You said you think he's attractive."

"Was I supposed to disagree with you?"

Nathan shrugs. "I don't know. Do you have a crush on him?"

He looks back down at the photos in his hand before Nathan can read his expression and take it out of context. "I stopped having crushes when I graduated high school." He pauses. It must be the very good wine or the knowledge that their relationship is coming to a close that rid Toby of the qualms which in the past prevented him from discussing his personal life. He regrets having shown Nathan the photo album, and he is uneasy now seeing it in his hands, as if he will look into the photos and see Toby's life story written there, his failed marriage, his affair with Sam, his hatred for his father. He knows Nathan won't ask directly about the facts, but the words slip from his tongue. "Even so, Sam doesn't work in Washington anymore."

He discards the photo album to hear what else Toby has to say and pulls himself onto the couch, leaving no room for personal space. "But you were interested in him?" he asks, keeping his eyes on Toby even as he leans forward to retrieve his glass of wine from the table.

Toby's chest rises and falls with a deep breath and he flips to the next photograph in his pile. "It was more the other way around."

"He loved you and you didn't love him back?"

Toby tightens his jaw. "We're not talking about this," he says, tossing the photos onto the coffee table and standing up.

Nathan clasps his hands over his heart dramatically. "Did he leave Washington because his bleeding heart could no longer stand to be near you?" He frowns, twisting his face in a mockery of pain and sorrow.

Toby does not react. "I said we're not talking about this."

Nathan recognizes that he touched upon a sore subject and recedes, and Toby collects their near-empty wine glasses.

The kitchen is dark and satisfying to his tired eyes. He places the glasses in the sink and stares at them, the way they reflect the dim light of the microwave, and becomes aware of Nathan's presence in the doorway behind him. He knows better than to wash the glasses tonight, when his exhaustion and dulled senses are liable to result in shattered glass, but he runs them under water to avoid speaking.

"I'm sorry," Nathan says.

Toby remembers that he is an outsider to this matter. The boy has no way of knowing what went on with Sam or the nature of their relationship, not what went on behind closed doors or how they presented themselves in public. He shuts off the faucet and turns around. "It's all right."

He takes him into a hug. Nathan lays his head down on his chest and they stand together in the dim kitchen light. Toby runs his fingers through his dark hair, darker than Sam's, but not dark enough to stop him from imagining that the hands around his waist belong to a different man, one whose lips he might never kiss again. He surrenders himself to the fantasy but is too slow to let it engulf him, and the guilt and sorrow that has grown on him like ivy pulls him back to reality.

He is tempted to let the matter go, to make tonight easier on the both of them. Toby wants to be able to touch him without wondering if Nathan can sense what's going on, wants this to be their last night together before the final act. From the beginning he knew things would end this way, that they would not have any sort of happy farewell, and the most painless thing he can manage is a slow, gentle let down. "There's a reason I asked you over tonight," he says.

Nathan's head lifts from his chest, and Toby sees now how tired he is. "Not just for the wine?"

With a deep inhalation he releases Nathan and lays his hands sturdily on the boy's shoulders. The words push around in his head and he takes time to formulate a gentle phrasing. He puts his hands into his pockets and turns away, steadies his breath in a way that lets him know that whatever comes next will not be good. He leans against the counter and does not meet Nathan's eyes. "There's a person at work," he says, trying not to overwhelm him with weighty names like The White House or The Press Secretary, "who mentioned something about my behavior. They asked who I've been having lunch with lately."

Nathan rubs his arms, naked without Toby's embrace or the assurance of a wall behind him, and looks down at the floor. He too is calculating his words. "Do they know?"

Toby shakes his head. "No."

"That's good," he says with the politeness of someone whose career is not endangered by this relationship.

"We have to be more careful."

Nathan looks up at him, and Toby can tell what he is thinking because he has heard the slip in his own voice, the concern and patronization that came out more clearly in his words than his body language. "What do you mean?" Nathan says, almost accusatively.

Toby rubs his temples with one hand stretched across his forehead. "I can't be skimping on work to spend time with you. We have to be more discreet."

"Because we're being so flamboyant about it already?"

"Jesus Christ."

Nathan uncrosses his arms. "Who cares if this gets out? I'm not underage, I don't have a criminal history, or... or—"

"You know that isn't the reason."

"I want this to work, Toby."

He looks into the boy's eyes, blackened by the shadows. They are sad, pleading, and somewhere behind them he knows that their future is inexistent. Toby wants to cut the cord, to tell him what he already knows, "This isn't going to work, no matter how much either of us wants it to," but he can't bring the words to his lips. He has said them before, to a different man, for the same reasons, and the pain he knew then stops him from saying them now.

"I do, too," he says, and believes it could be the truth. "That's why we have to take a break. We'll be back to normal soon." He pauses. "I promise."

"We can still go out though, on the weekends?"

"When I have time."

"This Saturday?"

Toby feels his hand curl into a fist, and he releases it. "How about Sunday?"

Nathan nods his head but there is something mechanical about it and in the dark he can't tell if the boy is crying or not. He turns away partly, in a way that makes Toby want to roll his eyes, but he patronizingly steps forward and takes him into his arms again. "Hey, c'mon." He rubs Nathan's back, soothingly, between the shoulders, like he did each time Sam needlessly worked himself up over something miniscule.

He and Andy have a date that Saturday—one of his recent attempts to woo her.

It doesn't feel like cheating. He thinks perhaps it should, but it doesn't. Toby knows it's wrong, but the disgust he feels is all in his head and not in his heart and that makes it easier to ignore. He doesn't feel the weight of his deception, doesn't panic in front of Andy like he did in front of C.J., or scramble to explain himself when he doesn't really have to.

He makes spaghetti, the only dish of his creation that has ever impressed Andy, and splurges on a $50 bottle of wine before he remembers she can't have alcohol. There is candlelight and music and they both know that Toby is only doing this as a stage for his hundreth proposal of the month, but Andy has never been one to pass up a free meal.

Toby is pouring the sauce into a gravy boat he salvaged from their divorce and Andy is helping herself to his sparse CD collection, commenting that his taste in music hasn't improved since they were married, when the doorbell rings.

"Are you expecting someone?" Andy calls. "I hope it's not your other pregnant ex-wife. That'd be a little embarrassing."

There's an oncoming trepidation as Toby walks down the hall from the kitchen, a dread that solidifies when he opens the door and sees Nathan on his step. "What the hell are you doing here?" he mutters, keeping his voice down, before the boy has time to get a word out.

Nathan can sense his anger and alarm and it makes him stutter. "I was just... you weren't answering your phone."

"Yeah, there was a reason for that." He glances back down the hall. Andy made no visible movement from the living room.

Nathan stammers. "I just wanted to say, about tomorrow night—"

"Nate, leave. My wife is here."

His eyes widen. "Your wife?"

"Yeah. It's nothing that can't wait till tomorrow?"

"I guess not."

"Good." He shuts the door in Nathan's face, not too harshly, and not loud enough to alarm Andy. He locks the door and returns to the kitchen, his mood considerably soured. Andy senses this as she follows him into the kitchen, leaning back against the counter with the glass of ginger ale still in her hand and watching as he scrapes the last bit of sauce into the gravy boat. "Everything okay?" she asks.

"Just fine," he answers.

"Who was at the door?"

He has been preparing a lie ever since he recognized Nathan on the stoop. "Neighbors." She waits. "Mail got mixed up."

Andy nods, then pauses. "Where is it?" she asks.

"Where's what?"

"The mail."

He doesn't reply and she doesn't push, but the lie is hung around his neck all through dinner and he doesn't feel quite right when he drives her home and kisses her cheek. They stand silent on Andy's doorstep, both waiting for him to get down on one knee like he has twice a week for the past six months, but Toby can't bring himself to do it. He isn't handling any of this the way he should, and Nathan is only the latest in a list of lovers he fucked over.

Andy lets him hold her for a while, almost an entire minute, and her hair smells like citrus shampoo. "If I ask," he says, still holding her close, enjoying the warmth of her, "will your answer be the same?"

"I'll let you know if I change my mind, Toby," she says, and pulls away. He waits for her to shut the door before he leaves.

He has been questioning whether his relationship with the college student has anything to do with Sam, even though he is certain it does, because he has been thinking of Sam every step of the way. He is trying to relive the moments of pleasure and happiness they had, before the euphoria curdled, long before he returned to Andy for comfort and retaliation; but bliss has a price, and his relationship with Nathan is headed down a muddier path than he and Sam ever traveled. Toby has often numbered the differences and similarities between his lovers, physical and behavioral, but never has he compared the nature of their relationships, distinct from one another in every aspect.

Nathan he sought out, went looking for, pursued; warm and inviting, whom he is deeply ashamed of but openly desires none the less; unnecessary, like another slice of chocolate cake you can do without but crave so badly, the one you don't want anyone to see you enjoying. Sam was necessary, like bread and water. Toby craved him like a starved man but still resisted, convinced he could go on without him, and only gave into him to satisfy the hunger in his gut. There was pain throughout his body when they kissed. The more he had of Sam the hollower he felt; he was satiated by Nathan quickly. They are nothing alike. When Sam hurt him, the pain was unfathomable. Nathan could barely graze his skin.

It was never meant to last with either of them. Both relationships were badly constructed, supported by deceit and secrecy: his relationship with Nathan was born from desire for another man, his relationship with Sam from proximity and a recent divorce. It doesn't take much to destroy relationships like that. What went on now with Nathan was an attempt to continue what had already come and gone.

Toby knew their relationship would splinter, had known it from the moment they decided to see each other again. Even then, he never thought they would last long enough for the affection to become sincere. It was always understood that any relations of his would come to a firm end before the twins were born, but he has never factored in the possibility that Nathan would find out that he was a father-to-be. Toby can only hope he can keep collateral damage to a minimum. They can last another month at most. Then the twins will be born, they will say goodbye to each other, and that will be it.

Nathan isn't dressed when Toby comes to pick him up the following night. He buzzes him in after only three rings, and Toby waits a while in front of the inner door before it opens. He anticipated Nathan's anger but had hoped against it on his drive here. He heeds Nathan's defensive posture and glaring before he decides to skip over the conversation that would only reutter what they both already know.

He lifts his arm from his side uncomfortably. "I made reservations."

Nathan doesn't move. "You didn't tell me you were married."

He shrugs and looks away for an instant. "Divorced," he corrects.

"And she was over for dinner?"

"Yeah." His eyes fall past Nathan and into his apartment. "She's pregnant," he says. "With twins."

"Yours?"

"Yeah."

Nathan nods, shuffles his feet for a moment and steps aside, and Toby stays still before realizing that he's being invited inside. They hug in the living room, Nathan's arms slipping around his stomach and under his coat, capturing his body heat, and although Nathan is not much shorter than he is Toby feels tall and large as he wraps his own arms around Nathan's shoulders.

"This was a dumb thing for you to do," Nathan says, and Toby is unsure if he is referring to coming over here, or knocking up his ex-wife, or beginning an affair with a college student, or beginning an affair while he has everything else going on in his life. Either way, he is correct.

Toby inhales and lets his breath out slowly, raising and lowering his chest against Nathan's. "I don't know what state of mind I've been in."

They don't bother canceling the reservation and spend the night together indoors. Later, with the blinds shut against a bright moon and Nathan asleep, his back turned to Toby in bed, he pulls him close and kisses his neck and shoulder, and whispers Sam's name.


End file.
